George O'malley Novels & Stories

With that I dashed out of the kitchen " You cannot say thank you abi!!!" I heard Omale shout from the kitchen. " Come and collect it!!" I shout back "Can you guys just shut up" that was George. I would say he was the nerd of the house. Always reading, I read too but his own was just too much. He hated noise...any form of noise, and guess the worst, he believed in being a virgin still marriage, so he found our acts very irritating. Lol... Sometimes I wonder why God decided to waste such beauty on his kind of personality. But sometimes he breaks out of that his shell. It rarely happens sha.

"Despite their belief in the Moon Goddess being next to nothing, they like to make people think they believe in her. That means being an outstanding citizen." Our journey-which remains under a veil of uncertain Malik sewed himself-lead upstairs, and into a restricted zone for the competitors. The moment my feet touched the top landing, I felt a thrill of exhilaration strike through me. Now my nickname Trouble Maker is beginning to have a lot more material behind it to back it up. "This is-" My words of complaint were cut off by Malik holding his hand up.

Reese grumbled. “What gets weirder is that Guinevere O’Malley is the daughter of Irish Mob Boss, Patrick O’Malley leader of the Boston syndicate until his untimely death at the hands of his sergeant at arms as a requisite to peace treaty for trying to incite a mob war with the Italian mafia at the time because…get this…his wife was having an affair and trying to get a divorce…with none other than…” Liam looked at Reese expectantly to see if he had figured it out.

In the lead was Bevis McCormick, the Scottish hick Brian had hired just after he’d persuaded his ‘best pal’ George to put up the money for the company. George drank his champagne thirstily, then clicked his fingers for more. A pretty Japanese girl obliged. George grunted at her, his small, rather piggy eyes balefully following the royal procession as they made for one of the Cattleya houses. He picked out Electra easily from the crowd. Even with her mass of blonde hair swept up, she stood out from the others. A beautiful woman. And one he despised with all his heart. George Dixon had once been a very successful pineapple grower, back in the old days, when real fortunes could still be made in

He had spent thr last three years clinging to the belief he could outrun the blood that pulsed through his veins. Owen O'Malley disembarked like a storm front rolling in off the dark Atlantic. Tall, broad-shouldered, his silver-streaked dark hair swept back in the exact style Greyson had, without thinking, adopted himself. Time seemed to have etched no lines on the sharp angles of his face; violence itself appeared to preserve him. The last official head of the Irish syndicate in Cape Town. A phantom in the legal world, a king in the shadows. Greyson's deepest, most persistent shame.

Enzo arrived twenty minutes later, rain-soaked, carrying a laptop and a file folder thick with printouts. “Got intel,” he said, dropping everything on the coffee table. “The photo was taken from a rooftop across the street—professional surveillance. Irish have a new player running point: Declan O’Malley. Ex-SAS, ruthless, doesn’t leave loose ends.” Alessio looked up. “So they’re not just thugs anymore.” Enzo nodded. “O’Malley’s been building alliances—small crews, mercenaries. He wants our territory. The alliance marriage pissed him off; he sees it as weakness.”